Monday, March 31, 2008

Un Soir dans Paris

The PROTAGONIST walks out to an empty stage. He speaks to the audience.

PROTAGONIST
Evenings in Paris aren't what they used to be.

Light, airy music fades in. Snow falls gently on a blue stage. A pair of LOVERS wander by, staring into imaginary store windows.

PROTAGONIST
On a moonlit evening years ago, lovers held mittened hands, laughing as they shook the snow from their hair, gently spending an unhurried evening.

It keeps snowing, but the LOVERS freeze. The stage is suddenly sepia-toned.

PROTAGONIST
It doesn't snow anymore, and people spend most of their time inside.

The LOVERS unfreeze as the snow stops. They are in a hostile environment, now, and they make a hurried exit without a word to each other.

PROTAGONIST
It's hot now, because it turned out we were right, but it was too late or we were too lazy to do anything about it.

A few disheveled WORKERS come out. They are in wife beaters, or without shirts. They carry milk crates and sit on them. One smokes as they play cards. As they enter, the PROTAGONIST speaks.

PROTAGONIST
The workers sit outside in the daytime, though, because they can't afford anything better. In the daytime, everything is sepia because that's just the color it should be in the heat.

A limo drives by. It stops in front of the workers long enough for someone inside to throw out a cigar. It peels off, revealing that the WORKERS behind it have exited.

PROTAGONIST
The French were always poets.

The stage is suddenly lit in an awkward bright white. A chaise lounge is flown in from above the stage. Two POETS enter, a MAN and a WOMAN. The WOMAN sits in the chaise lounge as the MAN pantomimes talking to her. They both seem bored.

PROTAGONIST
That's the joke, see? The government and the workers call this class that can afford to stay inside the Poets. It's said that they would stay inside and sip brandy for their whole life if they didn't have to step into the alley to smoke a cigar every half-hour.

A SERVANT walks in and fluffs a pillow on the chaise lounge. She exits.

PROTAGONIST
The Poets, not to be outdone, of course, have their own little joke. They call the government the army because the government can only solve problems with guns.

A POLICE SNIPER wanders by, twirling a rifle. The POETS give him a look of disdain. They exit. The chaise lounge is flown off.

PROTAGONIST
It's not hard to see why the poets call the government the army, especially with a police sniper at the end of every avenue, in bulletproof glass cubes with a hole for their gun, covering the street in front of them for any workers looking suspicious.

A WORKER sneaks in. The SNIPER spins and fires at the WORKER, The WORKER is hit in the shoulder. He spins off-balance, turning to face the audience. The SNIPER and the WORKER freeze.

PROTAGONIST
Something had to be done, anyway, what with all the windows that were getting broken.

The WORKER falls dead. The SNIPER whistles a little tune as he exits. A POET wanders by, giving the body a look of disgust.

PROTAGONIST
The poets didn't really care for the workers, but the workers hated the poets. The poets never really understood that the enemy of your enemy is still your friend, even if they're shooting at you. The workers liked progress.

Two STREET-CLEANERS appear. They lift the WORKER and place him in a body bag.

PROTAGONIST
The workers liked progress even when it was sepia-toned outside, and everything inside was fluorescent, and police snipers were using you for target practice.

The STREET-CLEANERS trip. One is angry. He raises his foot to give the bag a kick. They both freeze.

PROTAGONIST
It's hot now, and that makes people sad.

He exits. The curtain falls.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

This is a test.

A what? A test.

A what? A test.

A wh- SHUT THE HELL UP! I ALREADY SAID WHAT IT WAS!

(By the way, click on this picture to make it bigger. If you don't I'll hate you forever.)

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Applesauce

As I try to mature as a photographer, I find myself drifting myself more and more towards taking pictures of people rather than just objects. It is for this reason I am asking for models.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, you could be a model.

The photographs do not have to go online, though it would be nice if they could. Obviously the pictures will be in good taste.

If you're at all interested, let me know.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Un Soir dans Paris


Evenings in Paris aren't what they used to be.

On a moonlit evening years ago, lovers held mittened hands, laughing as they shook the snow from their hair, gently spending an unhurried evening.

It doesn't snow anymore, and people spend most of their time inside. When it's 36 degrees Celsius, no one spends more time outside than they have to.

The workers sit outside in the daytime, though, because they can't afford anything better. In the daytime, everything is sepia because that's just the color it should be in the heat. That's what the French say.

The French were always poets.

That's the joke now. The government and the workers call the class that can afford to stay inside Poets. The poets, it is said, comment on everything but never accomplish anything, and would stay inside and write poetry and sip brandy if they didn't have to step into the alley to smoke a cigarette every half-hour.

The poets sometimes refer to the government as the army. That's their joke. They're convinced that the only way the government knows how to solve problems is with guns.

It's not hard to see why the poets call the government the army, especially with a police sniper at the end of every street, in bulletproof glass cubes with a hole for their gun, covering the street in front of them for any workers looking suspicious.

Something had to be done, anyway, what with all the windows that were getting broken.

The poets didn't really care for the workers, but the workers hated the poets. The poets never really understood that the enemy of your enemy is still your friend, even if they're shooting at you. The workers liked progress.

The workers liked progress even when it was sepia-toned outside, and everything inside was fluorescent, and police snipers were using you for target practice.

It's hot now, and that makes people sad.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

I like to think of Harriet Tubman

I like to think of Harriet Tubman.
Harriet Tubman who carried a revolver,
who had a scar on her head from a rock thrown
by a slave-master (because she
talked back) , and who
had a ransom on her head
of thousands of dollars and who
was never caught, and who
had no use for the law
when the law was wrong,
who defied the law. I like
to think of her.
I like to think of her especially
when I think of the problem
of feeding children.

The legal answer
to the problem of feeding children
is ten free lunches every month,
being equal, in the child's real life,
to eating lunch every other day.
Monday but not Tuesday.
I like to think of the President
eating lunch on Monday, but not
Tuesday.
and when I think of the President
and the law, and the problem of
feeding children, I like to
think of Harriet Tubman
and her revolver.

And then sometimes
I think of the President
and other men,
men who practice the law,
who revere the law,
who make the law,
who enforce the law
who live behind
and operate through
and feed themselves
at the expense of
starving children
because of the law.

men who sit in paneled offices
and think about vacations
and tell women
whose care it is
to feed children
not to be hysterical
not to be hysterical as in the word
hysterikos, the greek for
womb suffering,
not to suffer in their
wombs,
not to care,
not to bother the men
because they want to think
of other things
and do not want
to take women seriously.
I want them to think about Harriet Tubman,
and remember,
remember she was beaten by a white man
and she lived
and she lived to redress her grievances,
and she lived in swamps
and wore the clothes of a man
bringing hundreds of fugitives from
slavery, and was never caught,
and led an army,
and won a battle,
and defied the laws
because the laws were wrong, I want men
to take us seriously.
I am tired wanting them to think
about right and wrong.
I want them to fear.
I want them to feel fear now
I want them
to know
that there is always a time
there is always a time to make right
what is wrong,
there is always a time
for retribution
and that time
is beginning.

-Susan Griffin